Sevenfold Revenge
by rozulthorn
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley discover that the horsemen aren't the only anthropomorphic personifications hanging around. No slash, implied or otherwise, unless you twist meanings, maybe.
1. Ominous Beginnings

I do not own Aziraphale or Crowley, who are Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman's, nor do I own the other anthropomorphic personifications, who sort of belong to the Bible/common belief sort of thing. Meh. Oh to hel- heav- Manchester with it, just read the darn story.

Chapter 1- Ominous Beginnings

We all know the four horsepersons of the Apocalypse, and the part they played in the Armageddon shambles, but they aren't the only anthropomorphic personification that Crowley and Aziraphale have run into.

It was midmorning in London, and Aziraphale and Crowley were feeding the ducks in St. James's Park. Well, they were trying to. They weren't having much luck today. It was strange, because the weather was fine, a cool, crisp spring day, and they were the only agents in the vicinity of the pond with any bread-like intentions. And yet, none of the ducks seemed that interested. As Crowley remarked to Aziraphale (who was trying not to yawn), there wasn't much point feeding ducks, who were fast asleep, drifting across the pond's murky surface. When one sank, snoring, they gave it up for a lost cause, deciding instead to go to the Ritz for an early lunch. They didn't notice the man sleeping on the park bench behind them, or the fact that everyone who wandered past him suddenly started yawning and looking for somewhere to sit. No, their minds were firmly on other things.

A few hours later, as dusk began to fall, the duo were still situated at their table in the Ritz. None of the waiting staff felt any inclination to usher them out, Crowley made sure of it. They all spent their time muttering salacious gossip about the maitre d and "accidentally" mixing up the salt and sugar. The second activity was stopped with a quelling look in the demon's direction from Aziraphale, and a mild inducement of guilt in the waiters, along with the strange desire to visit their local church group. Crowley shook his head as he downed the next glass of wine.

"You really do spoil everything, angel." He said, not too upset.

"I see a wile, I-"

"Thwart, yes, I know. But tempting is so much more amusing. Couldn't you let them be for a while before you start with the righteous thwarting?"

Aziraphale sighed, and searched tipsily for another topic of conversation. He settled on one they had abandoned earlier.

"Those ducks in the park," he slurred, as his wine glass refilled itself, care of the slightly less inebriated demon, "thanks, but those ducks, they were acting weird, f'r ducks. Never seen ducks do that. Just sink. Or do they do that normally?"

"Nah." Said Crowley, in the voice of an expert. (1) "Your average duck, your normal, basic duck, right, is made of different stuff to us…"

"Well it would be." Pointed out the angel. "You and I are of angelic-"

"Fine." Snapped the demon. "Of different stuff to humans." He glowered at Aziraphale. "It's more…" he searched for the word he needed, "… floaty."

The angel treated this statement with the caution it deserved.

"Floaty…?" He said, dubiously. "Are you sure?"

"Def'nately." Said Crowley, who wasn't. "So it shouldn't've been sinking, is what I mean. Something wrong with it. Maybe it shouldn't've been sleeping on a pond."

"But ducks don't sleep on water." This from Aziraphale's first edition of _A Guide To British Waterfowl_. He'd picked it up by accident at a car-boot sale, mistaking it for a similar tome on rare-book care. "They make nests on the land."

As Crowley pondered this, the door opened, admitting a large gentleman.

"No they don't."

"Yes, they do."

The man, whose table was reserved for a Mr. Tony, took his seat.

"No, s'not right. Course they don't."

What could have been an entirely random and pointless argument was then interrupted by the sudden, simultaneous grumbling of both participants' stomachs. They looked up, surprised. They'd both eaten pretty fair portions before starting on the wine, but were now seemingly quite intent on eating rather a lot more. They quickly ordered several more dishes, far more than would seem necessary or appropriate.

Mr. Tony, a middle-aged gentleman, began to order starters. Lots and lots of starters.

As the two supernatural entities made their way back to Aziraphale's shop, incredibly inebriated due to large quantities of wine following their fourth round of food, they didn't notice the extraordinary number of men wandering down a certain back alley in Soho. Had they cared to look down the aforementioned alley, they would have seen a tall, thin and impossibly good-looking woman, dressed as only certain women dress and attracting a phenomenal amount of custom. As it was, both were far too concerned with trying not to trip over one of the six extra feet they suddenly seemed to possess.

When they finally reached the backroom, neither felt like drinking as much as they had while still in the Ritz. In fact, Crowley remarked, once he saw the receipts that Aziraphale scrupulously kept, they had eaten and drunk rather more than seemed humanly (2) possible. They put it down respectively to "one of those things" and "ineffability, dear boy". On his way back to his own flat, Crowley tripped over a sleeping man on the street. There seemed to be a lot more than normal (better dressed, too, he thought). At the epicentre, though the demon didn't know it, was one who looked remarkably similar to the figure on the bench it St. James's Park.

(1) He'd done some work on nature programs, as he figured anything that boring was bound to cause mass irritation. Afterwards, he always felt himself to be rather well up on the antics of aquatic birds, no matter what David Attenborough had said…

(2) In a manner of speaking.


	2. Abduction

Disclaimer: Same as the previous chapter, plus - I don't own chavs (thank god).  
No chavs were harmed in the production of this fanfic.

Chapter 2- Abduction

Aziraphale was calmly (1) unwrapping a parcel of new books in the back room of his Soho shop. He barely noticed the jingle of the bell above the door as someone entered. The only thought he gave it was that Crowley was rather early in calling. The demon didn't normally rise until well after ten. So much for Evil never sleeping. After a few moments, the angel looked up. No one had entered the back room. After a moment he realised that it must have been a customer. He hurried through the maze of bookshelves, dithering as to how to get rid of them.

When he turned the corner of the shelving and faced the door, he couldn't prevent his jaw from dropping.

Stood before him, and eyeing the shop with a strange, hungry gaze, was the most undoubtedly tawdry woman the angel had ever seen. She glittered. Her hair was plastered back into a tight pony-tail, she wore the shortest skirt Aziraphale had encountered for a long, and was clad in so much jewellery she could have funded a new wing of the British Museum. One of her necklaces (gold) read "Avaritia".

After a moment, the angel mentally realigned himself and walked towards her. She gave him a blank stare as though evaluating his net worth in bracelets.

"How can I help you, madam?" He said, smiling awkwardly. This was not the sort of attempted customer he was used to. "Are you sure you've come to the right place?"

"Yeah mate." She said in a drawl. "An' I don't wan' any of ya books yeah."

"I beg you pardon."

She glowered at him, folding her arms. He realised, after a moment's study, that she was just a teenager.

"I said I'm not afta ya books yeah. I come here 'cos we've got a score to settle wiv ya." She advanced on him, glowering all the more. Aziraphale realised he could count all of the spots on her greasy face. He backed away slowly. Unfortunately, there was a bookcase in the way.

"I do believe you have the wrong person, madam." He said, fervently. "And now I must make an urgent call." He picked up the receiver and began to dial Crowley's number. This was the sort of thing he was much better at dealing with. He might even be able to understand the girl.

She slammed down her sweaty, long-nailed hand over his manicured one. He whimpered slightly at the warm, clammy touch.

"Don't you be thinkin' of callin' the demon, yeah." She said, with an evil grin. "We got 'im sorted well good and proper."

It was at this point that Aziraphale realised quite how much trouble he was in.

Crowley rather enjoyed a good sleep. No matter how much Aziraphale protested to him that the morning was the best part of the day, this demon could never get out of the habit of a good lie-in. It was one of the pleasures of the world, and he was making the most of it. He was, after all, a demon, and so he was naturally attuned for the night-time, or so he argued to the angel anyway.

He was just beginning to rise from the state between asleep and awake when he realised he wasn't alone in his bedroom. He sat bolt upright, his mind already formulating strategies of escape from Hastur and Ligur, or any of the other legions of Hell who had finally come to fetch him. He slumped when he saw who it was instead, but still didn't entirely relax. A young woman dressed all in green was still an intruder, even if she wasn't a hellish one.

"Who in… somebody's name are you?" He asked, fumbling for his sunglasses. Ah, there they were… what the heck were they doing under the pillow?

"Nice sunglasses." Remarked the apparent burglar. She had her arms full of his electronics. "Where'd you get them?" Her eyes were avidly set upon them, and the intensity of her stare made Crowley want to back away, very fast. For the sake of appearances, he folded his arms instead.

"I said, who are you?" He growled.

Without taking her eyes off the glasses for a second, she snagged the radio alarm clock (which wasn't plugged in and had never been) from his bedside cabinet.

"Someone who's here to settle a score." She said calmly. "Can I have those shades?"

Crowley gripped the sunglasses firmly with one hand.

"No. What score?"

"The score you helped make uneven when you averted the Apocalypse."

Crowley didn't reply. He was panicking.

She smiled wickedly. He noticed her tongue was green too. "Yes, I thought that would quiet you." She reached out to him, snake-fast, and whipped the glasses from his scared and unresisting hand. "You're coming with me."

Crowley shook his head, already heading for the door. He was gripped from behind with incredible strength, and he could hear her breath behind his ear.

"I think you h-have the wrong p-persssson." He hissed, breathless.

She laughed. "No I haven't, Mr. Crawly." She trilled. "And you will admit it before we're done with you. You helped discorporate our brethren. We are not happy."

She led him out of the flat as he struggled, trying to change form. She prevented him.

"No, not happy at all."

(1) Ok, maybe not. He was working very hard not to giggle in an unangelic fashion as he did so. He wasn't succeeding.


End file.
